


state of grace

by aes3plex



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism, john-irving-typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aes3plex/pseuds/aes3plex
Summary: He doesn’t mean to see it. He never does.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Lt John Irving/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66
Collections: 12 Days of Carnivale ~ 2018





	state of grace

**Author's Note:**

> This was written & posted [on Tumblr](https://aes-iii.tumblr.com/post/181131214456/state-of-grace-irvinglittle-peglarbridgens) for 12 Days of Carnivale 2018.

He doesn’t mean to see it. He never does.

There’s a place in the cable tier that Hickey frequents with Gibson: John has taken to patrolling it, every now and again. To deter them, if nothing else. Perhaps as well to remind himself how sordid it all is, how unforgiving and how low, on those nights when he finds himself restless or wakes from dreams of broad hands and strong thighs. Splashes icewater on his face; digs nails into palms; prays: and failing all descends, down into the hot dark which smells of tar and cordage, to hear them grunt against each other, Gibson’s little sobs and Hickey’s muffled curses. If he has the presence he interrupts them, although his horror of the act often makes him linger longer than he should. After, always, he feels sick and raw, and is resolved never to come again.

This, then, is not what he has come for.

Peglar is a good foretopman, his offences all forgivable and his voice in prayer earnest and true. John would not have thought it of him–it tightens his heart to think it. Bridgens he does not know so well, but the man has Captain Franklin’s regard; he has always been pleasant to John, a good and faithful servant. It is misery to find them troubled by this same ungodly thing: he reminds himself of this.

“All right,” Bridgens is saying now, and John isn’t sure if it’s a question or not: “All right,” and his voice is gentle, affectionate. “There,” he says, and John can’t see any of it but he wonders for a moment if he is mistaken after all: if they have come here for some other reason, to have some private exchange which is not ruinous nor damning. Perhaps they are merely gamblers, or drinkers, or—or Papists. Perhaps it is only his own wretchedness that leads him to his thoughts.

“Yes,” Peglar says, as a breath, and John knows he is not wrong.

If he shifts his weight, leans a little, presses his shoulders to the bulkhead behind him, he can see them in their vignette: Peglar with his head tipped back, up against the casks; Bridgens pressed attentively to him, his hand against Peglar’s cheek. They face each other: that is something different. (In John’s dreams Edward is always behind him.)

“John,” Peglar sighs, and John starts: but it is for Bridgens, of course. “Will you have me,” and John can see his hand moving: his palm against Bridgens’s shoulder, then slipping into his hair. Peglar shifts a bit, as if aligning himself.

Against John’s palm his trouserfront is warm, just rough enough for friction.

“Ah,” says Bridgens, and John can hear him smiling. “Not here, love,”—says it just like that, unashamed, like a Christian thing, and John’s heart beats, beats, beats. An arc of frustration through him, that they will commit no correctable sin: and then an ache.

Peglar laughs a little, breathlessly: “You’re too good, John,” he says, and tugs the man closer, into a kiss. In the low light of their lantern it’s like a painting, like something holy, driven by some silent motive force. His watercolours, he thinks, could not capture it: there is something medieval in the light. “Later, then,” Peglar says, when they pull apart.

“Later,” Bridgens says. “Come read with me a while, now.”

They tip their heads together, unfettered, forehead to forehead, and are quiet. Just their breathing in the warm dark. It is a perversion, surely—a corruption of that love which men feel for their brothers, of the love of God which guides every hand—but somehow it looks like peace. He swallows, thickly: his throat is impossible, choking full of nothing, and his eyes are hot. When he shuts them he can see Bridgens’s fingers against Peglar’s jaw.

-

(Leaving they pass inches from where John stands, stiff and silent: he has always excelled at not being seen. Their hands, he notices, are clasped.)

-

Later, up ladders and ladders to the focsle in the first crisp light of morning, where the cold scrapes like a dull knife. The ship still sleeping: even the men on deck quiet, thoughtful, with pipes in mouths. On the quarterdeck a well-bundled mate—Thomas, he thinks—keeps watch, Edward unmissable beside him. He is watching John: raises his hand in greeting, silent as snowfall. John waves back as if dreaming.

The cold is a blessing and a curse: cheeks still warm from the heat below, John looks at the brash ice and shivers. Soon Thomas will call his chilblained marine to turn the glass and strike the bell: so they will go on, hour by hour, even unto death.

Flat on the palm of the sea John looks into the grey eye of heaven and thinks: _Lord preserve me._

Heaven does not answer, except to send him Edward Little: striding up the focsle now to smile at him, all unassuming charm. “John,” he says, and he sounds pleased to say it—"John,“ Peglar had said, as if dying—"I thought it was you skulking over here.”

“It is,” says John, and swallows, and smiles.


End file.
